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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224875">Saovine Fair</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp'>disaster_imp</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Creepy Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, No beta we die like stregobor should have</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 20:47:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224875</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/disaster_imp/pseuds/disaster_imp</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier and Lambert get a little lost in the fog.</p><p>Hello! This flash fic was written for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TWFF009"> this extra-creepy prompt</a>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>74</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sordid Saovine - The Witcher Halloween Event, The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #009</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Saovine Fair</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynge/gifts">Lynge</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's Saovine eve, and something has been eating at Lambert for the past few days. He refuses to sleep, meditating instead - and Melitele knows, Lambert <em>hates</em> to meditate. He snaps at Jaskier over the smallest things, reacting to every change in their environment with a drawn sword, constantly prepared for attack. His behaviour is so unlike Lambert that Jaskier starts to worry something sinister is at play.</p><p>Well, that isn't entirely true.</p><p>The snapping and snarling is <em>very</em> like Lambert, the man is a chronically prickly bear, but never before has he taken his frustration out on <em>Jaskier</em>, and every time Jaskier tries to bring it up, Lambert brushes him off.</p><p>Crisp autumn air nips at his skin through multiple layers of clothing, and Jaskier wonders if it's time to dig his winter cloak out of his pack. Lambert is leading his unnamed (what is the point?) horse - who Jaskier has secretly named Greg - along a packed-dirt country road, eyes constantly on the move, alert to danger. Jaskier keeps pace alongside him, letting his mind wander, humming tunes and experimenting with different lyrics as they go. They are due to meet up with Eskel in a few days, and the broad-shouldered, handsome witcher's company is always an entertaining distraction. </p><p>Jaskier's feet come to a halt of their own accord.</p><p>
  <em>Is that what is bothering Lambert?</em>
</p><p>"Lamb..." Jaskier starts to ask as soon as the thought crosses his mind, but Lambert holds up a hand for silence.</p><p>"No," Jaskier says abruptly, his patience finally snapping. "You've been wound tighter than a lute string for days. <em>What the fuck is wrong?" </em></p><p>Lambert stops, scanning the horizon in every direction, tension coiled in his powerful body. Finding nothing to react to does not appear to reassure him. </p><p>"I don't.... <em>know,"</em> he admits, forcing the words out past gritted teeth. "Every year. I don't like Saovine, and <em>I don't know why.</em> Something feels... <em>wrong."</em></p><p>They continue walking in silence for a while, the afternoon sun failing in its assigned task of keeping anything warm. The swirling fog is cool and damp around Jaskier's ankles, and he grumbles at the thought of wet stockings.</p><p>Fog? Jaskier looks down again. It's mid-afternoon, the morning fog has long since lifted from the dips and valleys where it lingers longest on chilly days. Tendrils curl and twist around his ankles as if alive, the fog building steadily until it covers the road in a white blanket. He presses close to Lambert.</p><p>"What the fuck," Lambert mutters, hand flying to his medallion. "This is..." his voice trails off as he looks around, the heavy fog rolling over them to isolate them completely.</p><p>"Spooky?" Jaskier prompts, peering nervously into the fog.</p><p><em>"Familiar,"</em> Lambert says, frowning, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration. "Fucking... I can't... <em>remember."</em></p><p>Lambert boosts Jaskier up onto the horse and mounts behind him. The horse moves at a slow walk, unperturbed - or perhaps, unaffected - by the lack of visibility. </p><p>"I know I've been here before," Lambert mutters. "Don't get separated, don't stray from the path, words have meaning - <em>power</em> - and <em>I don't fucking know how I know that."</em></p><p> </p><p>Eerie music sounds in the distance ahead, a tinny noise, reminiscent of a music box that's slightly out of tune. The volume increases with each step forward, some trick of the way the sound travels in the fog making it seem like they've crossed more distance than just a few paces to reach it.</p><p>The impenetrable curtain of white mist parts to reveal a large, circular platform, rotating slowly on the side of the road just ahead of them. At the centre of the platform is a tall pole, and at the top of that, elaborately carved and painted ribs support a gaudily decorated ceiling. The platform is crowded with fantastical statues that move up and down on long poles. As they draw level with it, it slows to a stop, the music slowing and distorting asynchronously, stubbornly eking out one last note before it fades out.</p><p>They continue past without slowing, and the contraption grinds into action again. The music recommences, flat and distorted until the revolving stage gains momentum, and then continues eerie and still out of tune, but at least with better timing. Fog swirls, obscuring it from view, and the music fades behind them as if it were never there.</p><p>Jaskier shakes his head and unties his lute from the saddle, determined to cleanse his mind of the dissonant calliope melody the way a fine lemon sorbet can cleanse the palate. Finger-like tendrils of fog roll over the strings, and Jaskier feels them vibrate beneath his hand.</p><p>"Not sure that's a good idea," Lambert says behind him.</p><p>"What if <em>not</em> playing is not a good idea?" Jaskier asks.</p><p>"Yeah, fair enough," Lambert growls distractedly into his ear, trying to focus his other senses to monitor their environment for danger. He isn't having much luck, the sound of the carousel crept up on them and then faded out again far too quickly. Something is <em>very wrong</em> with either his senses, or this place. Possibly both. His medallion vibrates lightly against his chest.</p><p>Jaskier plucks gently at strings, and the fog swirls and dances around them, almost playful in its shifting movements.</p><p>Fog parts again on the side of the road, and a woman's voice can be heard, steadily growing louder. "Step right up, step right up, every child player wins a prize, you sir, would you like to try your hand at a laughing clown? Just a dollar to play, score twenty-one to win a prize."</p><p>A short, wide woman dressed in an eclectic bundle of ragged clothing winks at Jaskier. "Pretty voice you have there, mister."</p><p>A series of brightly painted jester busts sit side by side along a long bench, the chipped paint of their faces spelled to turn from side to side in jerky, uncoordinated movements. Eerily human mouths, all stretched wide open in identical silent screams, are painted into exaggerated blood-red smiles, and small balls sit in a tray at the front of each bust, knocking against each other with the sound of rattling bones. Tacked across the wall at the back is a nightmarish display of battered and broken toys. </p><p>At the end of the counter, a series of creepy dolls that look to be made from dough hang inside a box. Jaskier has made such things before, with the cook as a child, but these ones are glossy and painted, dead eyes staring blankly ahead. Fear curls through his belly, and - not for the first time - he understands how the phrase 'shit yourself in fear' came to be. His body wants to evacuate and run. He quells the feeling, shifting back into the known safety of Lambert's arms. Lambert takes the reins in one hand, the other pulling tightly around Jaskier's waist, holding him close.</p><p>"I'm here," he says in Jaskier's ear. "Don't touch anything. We'll be fine. Keep playing, they seem to like it."</p><p>Lambert sounds like he's trying to reassure himself as much as his companion, but Jaskier focuses on the warmth behind him, the solid safety of the witcher's arm around his waist, steady as a rock. He plucks again at the lute strings, and if he can't <em>see</em> any listeners, he certainly <em>feels</em> like he's being watched.</p><p>The woman's voice and the sound of rattling bones fades too quickly behind them, the fog continues its bizarre dance, and another disembodied voice can soon be heard ahead.</p><p>'Step right up, step right up, three tries for a dollar, every child wins a prize!'</p><p>The curtain of fog parts to reveal the next stall. A series of colourful, inflated bladders line the wall in a haphazard arrangement. Numbers are pinned above each balloon, and another display of doughy, dead-eyed dolls sits on the counter.</p><p>"You, sir, dollar to play, win a keepsake for your lady love, something to remember the evening by." A short, fat and balding man proffers a handful of darts, leering at Lambert. His eyes shine a little too brightly, and sharp white teeth crowd within a smile that is too wide and hungry to be human. Lambert inclines his head at the man in polite denial, and they move on.</p><p>Jaskier continues to play his lute, singing softly, and for a while there are left in peace. </p><p>The fog suddenly thickens along the road ahead, until even the head of the horse is no longer visible. Jaskier waves his playing hand in front of his face, and cannot even see that. Lambert tightens his grip on Jaskiers waist, and the horse comes to a stop. </p><p>Between one heartbeat and the next, the fog flows back, clearing a circle around them. An old man is revealed, tattered green clothing hanging from a spindly frame. He has a hold of the horse's bridle and  is stroking his nose, talking to him in a soft voice. The horse whickers, nudging the man, lipping at pockets, looking for a treat. The stranger chuckles and obliges, offering up an apple. </p><p>"Well-met again, young wolf," the man says, looking up at Lambert with glittering green eyes. He holds up a hand and blows. A fine, sparkling powder hits Lambert full in the face, and a string of filthy epithets falls from his lips as he inhales it.</p><p>"Young?" Jaskier says skeptically, and the stranger's lips quirk up into a smile.</p><p>"From my perspective."</p><p>"I remember," Lambert says suddenly, and the man nods.</p><p>"You have a gift, young bardling," the stranger says to Jaskier. "Thank you for sharing your skill. Would you give me your name?"</p><p>Jaskier is about to answer when Lambert pinches him, hard.</p><p>
  <em>Words have power.</em>
</p><p>"If I do, will you give it back?" he asks impudently.</p><p>Lambert stiffens behind him, relaxing again when the strange man cackles. </p><p>"Clever. I like you. If you didn't already belong to my son, I might keep you."</p><p>Lambert tenses again.</p><p>"Relax, boy. I won't take him from you."</p><p>"Son?" Jaskier asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. Lambert's father had been human, and abusive, and this man most certainly was not him.</p><p>"Lambert is a changeling," the man says.</p><p>"We won't remember," Lambert says from behind him. "I never remember. Every year..."</p><p>The old man nods. "There are rules, Lambert. Very well, songbird, what name may I know you by?"</p><p>"You can call me Jaskier." </p><p>Jaskier is rewarded with a toothy smile. "Jaskier. Buttercup. Pretty <em>and</em> poisonous. You are well-named. I am known as Puck. Thank you for your gift of music, my people have enjoyed it. I hope you will find your compensation suitable. Our worlds don't cross paths often, I hope to hear you sing again." He turns his attention back to Lambert. "It's good to see you again, lad. Fare thee well, my young friends."</p><p>Releasing the horse's bridle, the man retreats into the fog, chuckling as Lambert swears some more. Lambert kicks the horse into motion, and a dozen steps later, the fog disperses. A few swirling tendrils linger, winding around the horse's fetlocks and up to twine around Lambert and Jaskier in a misty farewell, accompanied by the tinkling happy sounds of children's laughter.</p><p>Jaskier looks back down the path they have come, and it is empty, a simple packed dirt road winding between farms. Lambert groans in the saddle behind him.</p><p>"What <em>was</em> that?" Jaskier asks.</p><p>"What was what?" Lambert says, looking around them intently. "We were... I thought... we were... Where are we? The last I remember we were both walking, when did we start riding?"</p><p>The horse is walking sedately along a path, empty fields on either side, the nearest farmhouse overlooking the road from a hill in the distance.</p><p>"I don't... remember," Jaskier says, frowning. "I wonder how much time we've lost? There's a stream over there, why don't we stop early for the night?"</p><p>"Medallion was buzzing. Stopped now, but I'd like to get a bit further away first. You smell like you were... scared, but hours ago. Dried sweat."</p><p>Lambert keeps the reins in one hand, the arm that is wrapped around Jaskier's waist remaining firmly in place. </p><p>"I, um." Jaskier starts. He covers Lambert's gauntleted fist with his own hand, twining their fingers together. "Lamb...?" </p><p>"Mmhmm?"</p><p>"What the fuck is a dollar?"</p><p>Lambert's rumbling laugh starts deep in his belly, and he plants a kiss on Jaskier's neck just below his ear. "No fucking idea."</p><p> </p><p>They meet up with Eskel, and then Geralt, and journey to Kaer Morhen together. It is Jaskier's first winter at the wolves' keep, and out of habit, he picks up his lute to tune it.</p><p>Except... he doesn't need to.</p><p> </p><p>His lute hasn't needed tuning since Soavine. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yell at me in the comments, I love talking about writing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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